The Life of a Winston
by lilmermaid
Summary: This is another Dally sister fic. I know that lots of people don't like these, but... well... I got nothing else to say. I think you should give it a shot. This is Grace Winstons take on The Outsiders, beginning to end.
1. Grace Winston

The Life of a Winston 

I walked slowly down the street, the cool night air ruffling my shoulder length blonde hair as I made my way down the streets of the east side of town. I knew it wasn't the smartest thing to be doing- walking down the street in the middle of the night. Night is when the Socs get boozed up and drive around, feeling all tuff in their Mustangs and Corvairs, looking for greasers to jump. I, however, was doing it anyway, because I am a Winston, and Winstons do what they want.

My name is Grace Winston, ad I'm fifteen years old. Yes, my brother is the infamous Dallas Winston. The one who has been jailed too many times to count. I myself have been thrown in the cooler a few times, and I can't say I'm not proud of it. What do you expect? Like I said before, I'm a Winston. People can always tell that Dally is my brother. It's from our eyes. Ice blue and piecing. People aren't usually wary of girls in the street, even greasy ones, but for one reason or another, sometimes people shirked around me when I passed them in the street. I can't say why. Maybe it's my temper, which has never been the calmest, or it could be the simple fact that I'm related to Dally. But I can be dangerous. It can't be helped. When you live with my old man, you learn to get hard, to numb yourself. I may not be as bitter as Dallas, but I can sure take a beating and get right back on my feet.

Anyway, I was walking down the lamplit street, smoking a cigarette. I heard that Buck Merrill was having another party, and I thought I could hunt some action, maybe have a beer or two. The trip to Buck's was uneventful, and I was almost disappointed by that. I would have liked to have a fight, to show those Socs what happens when you mess with me.

When I got to Buck's, I let myself in. I could hear the terrible music cranked even from outside, and I knew that even if he would be able to hear the door, by this point in the night he was probably too drunk to open a door. He was sitting in an overstuffed chair, a blonde on one leg, a brunette on the other.

"Hey baby," he called to me as I walked into the foyer. He was slurring and I sighed, knowing that Dally was probably here too, and that meant that he was probably drunk. I grabbed a beer and went upstairs. I knew which room he would be in. Second door on the left, the one with the crooked doorknob from the time that Dally was so drunk he collapsed against the handle, disfiguring it. I knew I probably shouldn't be going in there, but if Dallas was in there hurting someone...

The door with the broken handle was ajar, and Dally was on the floor, making out with a good looking greaser with too much makeup and a skirt that looked more like a belt than anything. They looked up as I pushed the door open and went inside. Oh god. Dally was completely hammered, and when Dallas was drunk, he was dangerous. I mean, Dal was usually dangerous, but now, he looked murderous. I took control.

"Go home," I told the girl, pointing to the door and taking a swig of the cheap beer. She glared at me.

"Why," she demanded. "We're in love." That made me laugh out loud, a hollow, empty laugh. Dallas, love somebody? Hah! I was his own sister and he didn't give a damn about me. He never loved me. Dally was incapable of love. He forgot how to a long time ago.

"Are we talkin' about the same guy?" I asked. "He doesn't love you." That was when Dally staggered to his feet.

"Gohome, Grace," He slurred. I shook my head and crossed my arms, gulping more beer as I did so. Dallas pulled out his blade. The girl's eyes got real wide as I flipped out mine.

"Leave," I told the girl again, knowing that Dally could use his blade on me. This time she backed out the door and ran down the hall.  
That was when Dallas did a double take, as if realizing what he had been doing for the first time. He put his switchblade away, and I cautiously did the same. Then, he collapsed against the wall, too drunk to support himself. I rolled my eyes in disgust and went to help him. I draped his arm across my shoulders and half dragged him to the bed in the corner. Then I pulled off his boots and grabbed a plastic ice cream pail from under the bed. I had placed it there months ago, special for situations like this.

"Here's your hurl bucket," I told him. "You'll need it." He looked like he wanted to hit me, and I knew he would have, had he not been too drunk to focus.

"Seemslike you've done thisbefore," he slurred.

"I have."

"Howcome I don't remember't?"

"Gee, let's think," I said sarcastically. He gave me a rude gesture and a dirty look. "Happy hangover, Dallas," I said.

Then I left, just like that. That's how smooth I am. I grabbed another beer on the way out. I would have stayed longer, but everyone was reeling drunk, and I didn't really feel like getting stoned just then, so I left. I lit up another cigarette as I walked away from the party, my head pounding with the too-loud sound of Hank Williams, and started over to the one place I could truly call home. Yep, you guessed it. The Curtis house. This was just another night of my insanely un-original life.


	2. Hangover

I was floating. Floating on pillowyness. There was a soft surface beneath me, and that was all that mattered. I could feel a pillow beneath my head, soft, gently cradling my cheek. It was so great to be somewhere warm, even if it was a couch. It was way better than sleeping in the vacant lot, which I did a lot. I hardly ever went home at night. It was too risky with my dad there.

I dozed on the Curtis' couch that night, fading in and out of sleep. I never slept well. I didn't need to. I had trained myself to always be aware, even in sleep, in case my old man came into my room in the middle of the night. I needed to be ready. I could feel the morning rays of sun stream through the windows, warming me. I was still half asleep when.

"Grace Winston! Who said you could crash on our couch?!" It was Darry, getting ready for work. I knew he was yelling in a playful way, but I wished he wouldn't. When I had first gotten there last night I had raided the fridge and downed four more beers. I wasn't feeling so hot that morning.

"Hey, Darry," I said, rubbing my head.

"What's up?" he asked, noticing me wince.

"Nothing," I said quickly, knowing that if I told him the truth, I would get the full blown, brotherly lecture on me being fifteen, that I shouldn't be drinking at such a young age, blah, blah, blah. He raised his eyebrows at me, knowing that I was lying.

"All right, all right," I said, throwing up my hands in defeat. "I had too much to drink, I admit it. Lay off, will ya?" He sighed.

"Grace," he started. "You're fifteen years old." Oh god. Just as I had predicted. The lecture. "I don't think-"

"Oh Darry, give the kid a break," came the voice of my saviour, Sodapop Curtis. He walked into the room with a piece of chocolate cake and his ever present grin.

"Who're you callin' kid?" I demanded, sitting up and slapping him playfully on the arm as he sat down at my feet. My head twinged sharply and my stomach lurched dangerously.

"Well, I'm going to work," Darry said. Then he turned to face me. "Don't think this is over"

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "You're real intimidating, Dar." he rolled his eyes and left in the car.

As soon as he was gone, I ran to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. I knew I couldn't do that while Darry was there, because then he would know how much I really did have to drink.

I stood up and leaned against the sink, coughing. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve and looked in the mirror. My skin was pale and my eyes were bright. It looked obvious that I was hung over. My stomach lurched again and I leaned over the toilet bowl. Cool hands pulled my hair back from my face, gently rubbing my back.

"Guess you did have a little much, huh Grace?" Soda said.

"It was only six beers," I insisted, flushing the toilet. He laughed.

"Only?!" I glared at him. He handed me some Aspirins for my headache and I swallowed them without water.

"You shoulda seen ol' Dallas last night! Now there's someone you won't be wanting to run in to today." I shrugged his hand off my shoulder and went back into the living room to sit on the couch.

"Want some breakfast, Grace?" he asked teasingly. I glared at him, my throat gargling in a gross way at the mention of breakfast. Then Ponyboy came out of the bedroom, tousle haired and sleepy eyed. He came and sat on the couch next to me.

"Hey Ponyboy!" Soda said cheerfully. "Want some chocolate cake?" I groaned.

"Sure, Soda," Pony said. "You ain't lookin' so good, Grace. What's up"

"I'm hung over, for the last time!" I said, a little too loudly for my present condition. My head twinged sharply. "How many more times am I gonna have to repeat that"

"Oh a few," Ponyboy assured me. "Two-Bit and Steve are due for their daily disturbance of life any time now, and Johnny's probably in the lot." He smiled at me. Glory, did he ever look like Sodapop when he did that. But sure enough, a few minutes later, Two-Bit came in.

"Don't slam the door!" Soda called. Two-Bit slammed it, of course. "Grace is hung over." Two-Bit took advantage of that, obviously. When Steve walked in a few moments later, he seized his chance.

"HEY STEVIE!" he yelled, top volume. "DON'T SLAM THE DOOR! GRACE HAS A HANGOVER!" I winced and then hit him as hard as I could. He cracked up and went into the kitchen to grab a beer, cackling. Steve shook his head and followed, not looking my way.

"Scandalous!" Two-Bit cried with a mock gasp. "The beer's gone! Why is the beer gone?" He shot a glare my way. "GRACE WINSTON!" If he had been yelling at anyone but me, I would have found it funny. I would have laughed alongside Two-Bit. I might've even done my bit. But I didn't feel well, and the boys were scraping on my last nerve.

"Lay off," I told them, before walking out the front door. I walked to the vacant lot, hoping that Johnny might be there. He was, as I had suspected, once again driven out of his house by his parents' rage.

"Hey, Johnnycake," I said, plopping down beside me. He didn't say anything. He just smiled. Johnny had always been shy around me. Whether it was because I was related to the person he hero worshipped, or the simple fact that I was a girl, I couldn't tell you, but I had a strong suspicion that it was the latter.

I hardly even considered myself related to Dallas. Sure, we were biologically related, but we never had the brother sister relationship that I had seen in movies or read in books. Dally treated me as he would anyone else.

Anyway, I was glad for Johnny's silence. It gave me time for the Aspirins to kick in and ease my headache. As soon as the throbbing in my head became a dull ache, I propped myself up on one elbow.

"Why're you out here instead of in there with them?" I asked. He flipped up the collar if his jeans jacket and shrugged.

"I should ask you the same thing," he said quietly. I shrugged too.

"I dunno. When you practically live with a bunch of teenage greasers who happen to be boys, peace and quiet is hard to come by." He laughed softly, and I smiled. Johnny rarely laughed. It was an improvement.

"Where's Dallas?" he asked timidly. I could tell that he was only asking to be making conversation.

"I dunno," I said without interest. I didn't give a damn where the hell Dallas was. "Probably puking his guts out in the gutter."

A few minutes later I heard Steve and Sodapop leave for work, and then Ponyboy headed off to the movie theatre. Two-Bit left soon after, with nothing better to do. That left me and Johnny. I began to fidget. I can't sit still too long, even with a hangover. I get bored.

"Hey, Johnny"

"Yeah"

"Wanna go for a walk?" I asked.

"Where"

"I dunno. Away from here. Come on." I stood up and brushed the dirt off my jeans. The Aspirins had cleared my head, and I could think without it hurting now. We walked for a while, stopping in at the DX to bother Steve and Soda. There was a group of guys there, trying to distract the girls from Sodapop. One of them gave me his number, but as soon as we left, I tore it up.

"Why'd you do that?" Johnny asked, watching the bits of paper drift to the ground like snowflakes. I shrugged.

"Gotta set myself limits," I told him. "You get too involved in someone's life, they only hurt you even more"

"I'll bet Dally told you that," he said. I shrugged again. It was true. Every time I tried to love someone, they just push me away. That happened with Dallas, with my dad, with other friends. "It's not true," he stated, voicing he opposite of my thoughts. I could think of nothing to say to that, so we walked in silence.

We were a few blocks from the movie theatre. Ponyboy's movie should have been ending, and we thought we could walk with him, just for something to do.

Then we heard the scream. It was all too familiar, one that I had heard countless times before that. But it was different this time. It was terrified. It was the kind of sound that I heard on the streets of New York when they are at gunpoint. Johnny and I exchanged alarmed glances. He recognized it too.

Ponyboy.


End file.
